He still had that Livvie when he made it to her.

He pulled that Livvie into his arms.

She lifted her hands to either side of his neck, curled her fingers to hold on lightly, and still quietly laughing, she tipped her head back and caught his gaze.

“Hey,” she greeted, green eyes light and dancing.

Fuck, he was so fucking falling in love with her.

“Hey,” he grunted, feeling warmth and contentment, unease, frustration and impatience.

And he was feeling these last because he was pissed he had to sneak into her house from the alley. Pissed he had to have a man on her. Pissed he had to worry if she didn’t text back right away. And pissed he couldn’t put her ass in his car and take her out to dinner so he could show the whole fucking world the beauty he’d earned.

Her laughter faded, but this time he had himself to blame for the brevity of her happiness.

“Sebring, what is it?” she asked, studying him closely.

“We’re goin’ to Vegas.”

She blinked at him.

“Sorry?”

“Next weekend,” he stated. “Do what you gotta do. Sort that shit. But we’re flying to Vegas Friday night, stayin’ until Sunday. You and me somewhere we can fuck like we fuck but do it bein’ able to leave our bed, go out and eat and gamble and drink and whatever the fuck we wanna do and it doesn’t matter who sees ’cause no one is watching.”

She melted into him, not hiding even a little bit she liked that idea.

“Next weekend. Vegas,” she agreed.

“Next weekend. Vegas,” he confirmed.

Her happiness came back, not through laughter, through a sweet smile.

“I’ll sort my shit,” she promised.

“I’ll sort mine,” he did the same.

“Okay, that’s a plan. Now, I haven’t been home in a while so we have a choice for dinner. Heated up canned clam chowder or Chinese delivery.”

“Is that a choice?” he asked.

“Right,” she murmured. “Chinese delivery.”

He let her go with one arm, pulling her around to his side and walking her into the gigantic space that was the front of her house. “You got menus?”

“Yes,” she answered, moving from his hold to head to a drawer.

He stopped at her bar. “I get it if you feel like Chinese. But don’t you have a personal hibachi chef, you know, after he slides one of these motherfucking huge marble slabs off to get to his grill?”

She threw him a look, her eyes still light, her lips tipped up.

“Or maybe you can call your pizza maker to duty. Your wood fired oven outside or what?” he pushed.

She turned away from her drawer and came to him, tossing a menu across the vast expanse of thick, gorgeous, expensive-as-all-hell countertop.

“You should count yourself lucky you’re handsome, tall, built and a very good sex partner or your smartassedness would be problematically aggravating.”

“Sex partner?” he teased.

“Look at the menu, Sebring.”

“Smartassedness?” he kept teasing.

“Menu,” she ordered.

“Problematically?”

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

He started grinning.

“Baby, get over here,” he ordered through his grin. “Haven’t kissed you yet. I’ll look at the menu after I do that.”

She rolled her eyes back to him. “And again with the lucky when you’re equally problematically domineering.”

“You’re not getting over here,” he noted.

“I’m engaged in trying to figure out why I have to get over there when you’re perfectly capable of coming to me.”

“Because you’re used to rambling around this palace and I’m not. I need to conserve my energy for the tour you’re gonna give me after we order Chinese.”

That got him another upward curl of her lips.

He’d take it. Gladly.

She also got her ass to him, came close, pressing her front to his side as she rolled up on her toes, tipping her head back, and he rounded her with his arm.

She offered her mouth. He took it.

And when they broke, she stayed close and advised quietly, “The ginger chicken and Mongolian beef are superb. And the Peking pork isn’t bad either.”

“I’ll order it all. Chinese leftovers never suck. You want egg rolls?”

“Yes.”

“Soup?”

“Hot and sour.”

She was an egg roll and hot and sour girl.

Fuck, woman of his dreams.

Definitely falling in love.

“You got beer?” he went on.

“Yes.”

“Whisky?”

Her face fell. “Just Glenlivet but I also have bourbon, Maker’s Mark.”

“Neither suck, baby,” he assured.

Her eyes brightened again.

“Just so you don’t forget,” he began. “You mean more to me today than you did yesterday.”

Her lips parted and her eyes got bright a different way.

“And yesterday you meant a fuckuva lot to me,” he finished.

“Nicky,” she whispered, the bright at the bottoms of her eyes trembling.

He gave her a squeeze. “Get used to that, Liv. I intend to say shit like that a lot and I don’t want you bawlin’ every time I do it.”

Her mouth turned down and the bright in her eyes changed again.

“I’m not bawling.”